The novelty wears off, the twists and turns subside; I am left with nothing but a barren stretch of bitumen and my unfamiliar, glassy gaze reflected the rear-view mirror, the eyes of a stranger I no longer recognise.

What happens when we do not identify entirely with that which is modelled to us? What happens when there are parts of ourselves that, to our knowledge, should not or do not exist? How do we make sense of who we are?  

To ease my anxiety, I recover hidden histories. I try to remember as much as possible. If I am here and now, recovering and remembering, maybe someone, someday, will come searching for me.

The nation we call Australia is built upon colonial (mis)representations of Aboriginal people. These (mis)representations were – and often, continue to be – disseminated through literature penned by non-Aboriginal people.